The evening is soft and the purple dusk deep,
The village a-slumber, my baby asleep,
The cradle a-rocking beneath my tired foot,
The fire a-flaming in this little hut.

My husband’s a-fighting somewhere in the wild,
And I am alone with my sweet little child,
With my fingers a-knitting, my needles a-click,
And my candle a-spitting upon its short wick.

My eyes are a-smarting now in the lost light;
I lay down my wool and look out towards the night.
Our window is small and it holds back the wind
But a-shows all the shadows of trees as they bend.

A storm catches up and a-whirls through the dell;
It rattles our door with a savage’s yell.
I long for his arms to a-hold me so strong,
To hush me and keep me from feeling alone.

But I keep on a-rocking the cradle so crude,
My foot going up and a-down as I brood.
I keep all my thoughts locked away in my breast
Along with the mem’ries of him I love best.

The wind’s now a-dying. I poke at the flames.
I pick up my wool as the thunderstorm tames–
A-rocking my baby, a-listening to rain
While the fire’s now flickering, peaceful again.

The evening is soft and the purple night deep,
The village a-slumber, my baby asleep,
The cradle a-rocking beneath my tired foot,
The fire a-flaming in this little hut.